This post may make you throw up in your mouth a little.
I rarely feel an absolute compulsion to blog about something. Every once in a while, as something is happening or when I notice something, I think to myself, "oh...I should write this out later and explore why I felt this way" or something along those lines. But today, as I was holding the ChickieNob up to stare at herself in the mirror (she was wearing an oversized March of Dimes t-shirt as pyjamas, a crown, high heels, and someone's old ballet skirt--you can see why she would need to check herself out), I was thinking silently, "I need to blog about this morning before I get down to work."
It all began yesterday morning actually.
I noticed a glint of silver in the closet and moved some enormous containers of soup noodles (what? You don't buy soup noodles by the case?) to see that someone or something had shredded the internal wrappers on some chocolate bars. The mouse was back.
And I did what any mouse-fearing fifties-throwback would do. I told Josh to take care of it.
The store was out of many kinds of traps and the only thing they could offer were traditional snap traps. He baited four of them with peanut butter and set them out before bed.
This morning, it was Josh's turn to sleep in and I brought the twins downstairs, both going commando because I had left all of their clothes in the dryer last night. I decided to swing by the kitchen before I went down to collect the laundry and I hung away from the door, peeking inside at the traps. One had definitely been moved.
I ran upstairs and woke Josh, just as any mouse-fearing fifties-throwback would do.
"I love you so much and I know it's your day to sleep in and I will let you go back to sleep after this for an extra eight hours but you are so big and I am so little and you are made out of strength and I am made out of skim milk and I. think. there's. a. mouse. in. the. trap."
He bolted out of bed and went down to the kitchen while I casually collected the twins and held them in the living room, chattering on about a huge mess I had made in the kitchen and how I needed Josh to clean it up because it was the sort of mess that a person like me simply didn't deal with. It is just one of the drawbacks to being a skim milk constructed, tissue-paper-like kind of girl.
I hope they don't turn out like me.
It was a mouse with a broken neck and Josh took it outside for a garbage can burial. Which made me ten kinds of sad (and I'm certain that someone will comment on animal cruelty on this post). But he did eat my chocolate bars and poop on my kitchen floor. Not that the crime deserves the death penalty, but I blame a lot of it on Home Depot for being out of other traps.
But wait, you say, that didn't make me throw up in my mouth. Wait for it.
I went into the kitchen to look at the other traps and noticed that one was missing. I asked Josh if there had been more than one mouse. He came back and counted the existing traps with me and agreed that one was missing. "Is there a chance," I asked, "that a mouse could have gotten trapped and dragged it somewhere?"
"Anything is possible," Josh answered.
He started poking around the kitchen while I returned to the living room to fold clothes and try not to think about the fact that a dying mouse could be in this room at this very moment, dragging a trap behind him, wondering what kind of sick human would harm him like this simply because he wanted to partake in a little chocolate. Does this human maim everyone who comes in her house, seeking a little chocolate? The next time Lindsay swings by, is she going to have to contend with losing a body part if she muses that a square of Hersheys would hit the spot?
As I am trying to look and not look under the sofa at the same time (I don't want to be the one who finds this thing), Josh calls out a grim, "it's here."
"With a m-o-u-s-e?" I ask.
"No...with a bit of t-a-i-l. No, wait, not with a bit of t-a-i-l."
And I have no reason why that would bring me INTO the kitchen instead of running as far away from said trap, but I entered the room to see Josh staring at the trap in revulsion.
"It's his foot," he admitted.
I warned you that you'd throw up a little.
Somewhere, out there, there is a tiny hurt mouse missing a foot. Inside, we plugged the crack of space next to the dishwasher where he left the trap and silently thanked him for his great escape which showed us the door he was using when he came to steal my chocolate.